Look Them in the Eye
by mahc
Summary: JED-JOSH Jed Bartlet worked hard not to flinch under the heavy disappointment that dulled Josh Lyman's eyes and stretched down every line of his lanky frame. Post-ep for Talking Points


POV: Jed Spoilers: "HSFTTT," "Posse Comitatus," "The Two Bartlets," "Han," "Abu el Banat," "Talking Points" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.  
  
Look Them in the Eye A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
"Be nice to roll back that tide, wouldn't it?"  
  
"Yes, Mister President, it sure would."  
  
Jed Bartlet worked hard not to flinch under the heavy disappointment that dulled Josh Lyman's eyes and stretched down every line of his lanky frame.  
  
Disappointment. It was something that had haunted him all of his life. Since childhood, it had been his worst fear, the impetus that pushed him to excel above all others, to achieve more and more. Toby had recognized it, dared him to challenge it.  
  
But it seemed recently the fear worked hard to overwhelm his ability to keep it at bay. He disappointed everyone. Leo, for not telling him about the MS sooner; Abbey, for not telling her about Shareef and putting Zoey in danger; CJ, for not giving sanctuary to the young musician from North Korea; and now Josh, for negotiating a free trade agreement that sacrificed 17,000 American jobs.  
  
Disappointment.  
  
He sighed, sinking back into the chair that had been his for five years, that would be his for three more, if God saw fit to keep him there. A chair that he hadn't originally sought, but that he desperately had wanted to keep once its power enticed him to sit.  
  
As they seemed to do more often now his muscles protested his movement, stiffened his attempt to ease down so that he found himself almost falling against the leather before his body came to rest. It would pass, he knew. But it would return. He had accepted that finally, just as he had accepted the unsettling reality that this damned disease would rob him of his dignity at the end. At least Abbey would be there. He didn't doubt that now, and it gave him immeasurable comfort – despite that fact that he dreaded what the ordeal would put her through.  
  
He sighed hard and ran a hand through his hair, then reached down to unbutton the suit vest that seemed suddenly too tight. He rarely wore a vest, wasn't sure why he had chosen to do so that day, but now it closed around his torso and threatened to constrict his breathing. He knew it really wasn't the material, it was something deeper, something much more abstract. But when it was open, he felt better.  
  
He was alone now, left to reflect on the painful conversation with his deputy chief of staff.  
  
"It's the evolutionary nature of capitalism," he had told Josh.  
  
"This isn't economic theory," the younger man had returned. "Where's our allegiance? To our own people or to third world plutocracies?"  
  
Normally, he would have gleefully entered a debate on a subject at which he excelled. But this was different. This wasn't a debate. This was a plea. This was an accusation.  
  
He had patiently explained his position to Josh, had hoped to see the acceptance – had known he wouldn't. "There are children in those third world plutocracies who dig through trash heaps for food, who'd kill for a low wage job. You think if they're not sewing sneakers they're downing cocktails at a debutant ball?"  
  
But Josh was not turned. "This is different. These programmers have middle class jobs."  
  
"Different how? Because we know them?" But it was true. It did make a difference.  
  
"Different because you and I looked them in the eye five years ago at the Wayfarer Hotel."  
  
Damn it! There it was again. Josh had hit it straight on and the shot punched him right between the ribs. A promise – and now another disappointment. The argument left him, the resignation of what he was doing, or what he had to, filled in the vacancy.  
  
"I know that we did." He couldn't stop the heavy breath that escaped him, that audibly demonstrated his own disappointment with himself. "And sometimes I wish I could stick to the theory. I don't like seeing our friends get hurt."  
  
The idealism that they had once championed came through with Josh's naïve statement. "Then let's not hurt our friends."  
  
If only it were that simple.  
  
"By doing what?" And he almost wished Josh could come back with an answer, with the solution. But he couldn't. Because there wasn't one. "Building a wall around the country so we can keep those jobs a bit longer and never create any new ones? Passing a law that no one can be fired even if they've played video games at their desk all day?" With dark humor, he mumbled, "Probably get a spike at the polls for that one."  
  
He almost felt sorry for Josh, knowing that the deputy chief of staff was fighting a losing battle, knowing that the excitement he had shown in the first campaign was crumbling under the tedium of reality. He had felt it long ago, but he wished he could keep it from his senior staff. He couldn't. No one could.  
  
Sharing more than he really intended to, he said, voice flat, "Who gave us the notion presidents can move the economy like a playtoy? That we can do more than talk it up or – smooth over the rough spots?" After a pause, he admitted, to himself and to Josh, "It's a lie. What we really owe that union is the truth."  
  
He saw the acceptance on Josh's face, now. "We're running around saying free trade creates high paying jobs."  
  
"And it will. But I've been trying to tell you it's not that simple." It wasn't. Economics never was. And this was the economically sound thing to do. He knew that. His Nobel Prize-winning brain told him that.  
  
But it was damned sure difficult to convince himself it was the right thing to do. And the fact that he had the unqualified support of the Republicans made it even worse.  
  
Josh had stood, recognizing the futility of further discussion, of rolling back the tide. Because the sea was coming in on them, faster and more furious than they had anticipated.  
  
And so the President of the United sat in his chair, vest open, wishing he could save the jobs and advance the economy, as well. But he couldn't. He couldn't do both. All he could do was to look into the eyes of his staff, and into the eyes of those 17,000 people that were about to lose their jobs, and face the disappointment.  
  
Once again.  
  
It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. 


End file.
